


I Could Never Reach Him

by After_Baker_Street



Series: Back Together Again [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Child Abuse, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Emotional Manipulation, Fire, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Nightmares, PTSD, Post Reichenbach, Psychological Trauma, Sherlock's Past, Sherlock's Violin, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/After_Baker_Street/pseuds/After_Baker_Street
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John finally gathers the courage to tell Sherlock how he feels, Sherlock's response is unexpected, and unexpectedly painful. As John says -</p><p>"This is the story of how I broke Sherlock Holmes, and how he put himself back together again."</p><p>This section includes visiting the Holmes family estate, and covers a lot of Sherlock's childhood history.</p><p>THIS IS THE FIRST SECTION THAT NEEDS MAJOR TRIGGER WARNINGS: major trauma, domestic violence (referred to but not described), child abuse/emotional torture of a child, psychological manipulation, references to death of a child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Could Never Reach Him

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress, and will be continued. Future posts to include: more Johnlock, sex, romance, visiting Mummy Holmes, more of Sherlock's history, John's history, etc.
> 
> From here out the story only gets darker - major trigger warnings apply!

>   
>  Winter stole summer's thrill  
>  And the river's cracked and cold  
> 
> 
> See the sky is no man's land  
>  A darkened plume to stay  
>  Hope here needs a humble hand  
>  -Ben Howard "Black Flies"  
> 

I woke from an uneasy drowse with a start. Sherlock hitched me closer, turning to face me. He shushed me, his voice low and easy. My pounding heart faltered when he spoke my name, and I felt the tightness in my chest relax as he rubbed my neck and hair. 

Once my breathing had returned to something like normal he said “it’s absurd, you need sleep.” 

“Ha, you should talk.” I gestured to the journal he must have just put aside on the side table; it had the company of a large fan of articles and journals spread around the bed. 

He gave me an indulgent smile and said “you know I hardly sleep at all. Now I’m compiling references for...” He trailed off as though he’d lost the direction of that thought. 

“You mean nervous, worried about tomorrow?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“Of course not. But you, you might be. Though you were dreaming about Afghanistan again.” 

“No I wasn’t.” I protested, but he caught my eye and said sharply, “Weren’t you, though?”

And I realized I had been dreaming of being back there again, this time of a terrible IED explosion. So many wrecked bodies, the smell of iron ripe in my nostrils. Time went all hazy, then sped by as I moved. When I came up on a motionless figure in a dark coat, it slowed terribly. Sherlock, his face covered in blood, lifeless eyes blank and icy. Just as the last time I saw him after he took an awful jump. I shouted for help, but my voice never left my throat. I tried to make it to him. I could not reach him. I could never reach him.

He’s struck by an idea. I could tell because he leapt up, suddenly graceful - purpose practically visible, shimmering in him. 

I’m exhausted; I can’t keep up. Beautiful, piercing notes accompany his footfalls as he returns. He walks in while he’s playing. It’s so soft, so unlike what I normally hear from him. His eyes close as he stands at the foot of the bed before me, and he plays on. It’s the sound of the ocean, I’m sure of it. The susurrus of water, or maybe wind. It climbs and falls and then I know it is the sound of trees reaching for the sun. I feel the tension drain from the dream, pour from the ache in my shoulder. 

I slept.

*

“Are you telling me what to wear?” I wasn’t even trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“Of course, don’t be silly.” He barked dismissively, waving me away. I took the jumper from his hands and stuffed it back in my bag. 

“That’s one of my favorites, and I’ll wear it if I like.” 

He froze for a moment, then turned to me, realization dawning on his face.

“Yes,” his face softened, “I’m sorry, how silly of me.” With a sudden burst of a sigh, he sat on the bed. “It won’t matter anyway.” he continued.

I sat next to him, irritation ebbing as he put his hands on his face. With an echoing sigh of my own, I put my arm around him. 

“You can be a bit of an idiot.” I said gently.

*

It was a gorgeously clear day, early spring and nearly warm. The sky was technicolor blue and tossed with candy floss cloud. Sherlock greeted the sun with a scowl. 

“Come on, then.” I ushered him out of the taxi.

“Doesn’t matter.” He muttered irascibly, “the car’d wait.” 

“Doesn’t mean I would.” I threatened, though I didn’t mean it at all. He didn’t even raise an eyebrow. He muttered and grumbled all the way into the station, while I organized tickets, even as we boarded. It seemed likely he’d go on until I gave him a look and said, “Well, we’re in a fine fettle today, aren't we?” 

He immediately shifted gears, his eyes drinking me in. “Yes, well...” he trailed off, coming close to an apology. Then he took my hand and said “I’m glad you’re doing this. With me, I mean.” 

The first thing I registered was shock. He had threaded his fingers through mine as quickly and easily as though we’d been doing it for ages, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

It was the first time he’d touched me in public. Albeit, it was a mostly deserted train car in the middle of a weekday, but it was a change. And he was damnably perceptive, so he caught the tiny hesitation, the stiffness in my hand and arm. 

“Sorry.” He said brusquely, and the sudden, nearly imperceptible flash of hurt in his eyes was already gone. He leaned back in his seat, straightening his suit jacket. 

How much we spoke, then, in those tiny, split-second interactions. But the silent language of the body can betray us, can deny us. So I slipped my arm around him, pulling him close to me.

The mask of cold, the mask of distance was gone, and my heart was wrenched as he looked like such a boy, such a terrified child. His shoulders were bony beneath my arm. Always slim, the past few weeks of thinking and distraction had whittled him down. He was wan, and unnaturally pale, even for him, as though he belonged to night and looked incongruous in the day. 

Dark circles ringed his eyes, which were glassy with exhaustion. I considered, briefly, telling him he had to eat. But he rested his head against my shoulder and gave a ragged sigh. Settling against me, he relaxed slowly, folding his long legs beneath him. I took a few minutes to adjust to the idea that we were practically cuddling. On a train. 

“What am I getting myself into?” I asked carefully.

When he didn’t answer, I glanced down. He had fallen asleep.

Damn the man. “You’re infuriating,” I whispered to him as he slept, “and I love you.” 

The train rolled on and on, and I wished it would never stop, that I could go on holding him. That I could always be resting my cheek against those warm, soft curls, that I would always feel his hand grasping mine. 

Of course, it wasn’t to be. He woke as the train car started to fill. We sat quietly, reading, as the crowd came and went. I wanted to bring up how this visit might go, what I had to look forward to, but I knew he wouldn’t want to talk where others could hear, even strangers. He was fidgety, constantly glancing over the edge of the book he was supposed to be reading. Medieval horticulture, fascinating stuff. I could see him silently coming to conclusions about our fellow passengers, but he never shared them with me. He brought the same frantic, excited quality he’d been carrying lately to these deductions, his mouth sometimes working silently as he tried out a thought, occasionally a pale hand flicking towards what must have been a clue. I tried to ignore him, and knew he looked like a bit of a madman. As the train slowed for a stop, a thin woman, a girl really, walked past us.

And like a shot, he reached out and grabbed her wrist. She whipped around, blonde hair flying as she gave an audible gasp of fright.

Sherlock was blazing as he looked straight at her. “You’re right.” he said evenly. “He’s going to kill you. Probably tonight. Trust your instincts, go stay with your mum.” She wrenched her wrist from Sherlock’s grasp but never took her eyes off him.

“What?” She backed away, headed for the door. As she met it, he said firmly, not shouting, but his voice carried easily to her. 

“It’s going to happen soon. What you’ve been afraid of all this time. Don’t let it.” 

She turned to leave, then turned her head back. 

“Yes, yes, alright.” She nodded and stepped off. 

People from several seats around where looking at us. Sherlock leaned back and picked up his book again. He eyed me over the top, of course, looking for the reaction he knew would sure to be there. He responded to the question on my face.

“That was easy.” he said quietly, “After I knew something was wrong, all I did was read her texts in the reflection of the window. I don’t actually know he’s going to do it tonight, but it’s going to happen one of these days. He’ll go too far.” 

“I would say I’m impressed, but you already know that.” I allowed myself a smile. He smiled back, eyes turning up at the corners. I’d never stop being impressed with him, and I was more impressed he had reached out almost kindly. His was, in many ways, a lunar beauty. He was strange and distant, but reflected most brightly when more light was shining on him. I had not realized until lately that I had been the light shining on him most reliably since the day we met. That he unfolded and settled when I was around. With me, he found some sort of balance, and his waxing and waning grew less terrible with time.

He used me as a touchstone for his humanity, something he often lost the thread of when he was deep in his breathtaking intellectual athletics. Over the past months, I saw him use a strange new empathy, even kindness, to make leaps he never did in the past, to soften his edges without losing any sense of his keen mind.

Green countryside flashed by, and I did my best not to think of our destination. Within a few moments, he was putting on his coat, and wrapping his scarf around his neck, despite the warm day. His face was set and hard, he had the same look I’d seen in soldiers putting on body armor. As we came to the stop, we stood and leaned down and close. His lips were nearly touching my ear when he said quietly “This might be a bit difficult.” 

I never sorted out if he meant for him or me. We were suddenly clamoring for our luggage, stepping out to the small station. Though still beautifully sunny, things were much chillier out here in the country. 

We made our way to the parking lot, where an older gent was climbing out of a classic beaut of a car so shiny and polished it could have served as a mirror. I gave a low whistle of admiration as the dapper gentleman headed our way and I realized he was nodding and smiling at Sherlock as though he knew him. Because he did, of course. Sherlock stepped ahead of me, took the man’s hand and shook it.

The driver, of course. And one that Sherlock knew. Driving around a spectacular auto like that? I’d had the impression his mother was sending a cab to pick us up. Wrong, and wrong again. Though Sherlock could be a bit public school, this was beyond what I’d imagined for someone who needed a flatshare. 

I tried to broach the subject when we were in the car, but Sherlock became terse, and soon hid behind the mask of ice I knew so well. I knew to keep quiet, keep to my own thoughts for a while. After what seemed like ages on the road, after a polite exchange with the driver about our journey on the train, the driver finally put up a screen to give us a bit of privacy. 

The mask faded a bit, and he suddenly turned to catch my eye. He said, practically under his breath, “This may have been a terrible idea.” and slid his hand to mine, well under the view of the driver. 

“Why?” I asked, in my normal tone of voice. I felt like a schoolboy, hiding out, whispering. He gave me a wide-eyed look of reproach and whispered low again.

“It’s just that Mummy can be...well, let’s just say it’s never easy.” 

“Sherlock!” I chided, feeling every bit like Mrs. Hudson for a second, “Mycroft said she’s what...in her seventies? How bad can she be?”

“You’ve no idea.” he sighed, before turning to stare out the window, but I knew he saw nothing.

The way was surprisingly long, ending in what I thought was a long, one lane country drive. As we passed massive gates of stone and cast iron, I realized it was a private road, up to a private estate. “Holmes” was carved neatly into the stone. After that, the narrow drive was canopied and green.

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again...” I said, nearly laughing. Sherlock rolled his eyes, indignant, and watched me carefully. 

First sight of the place still shocked me, though I thought I was prepared for anything. It’s larger, much larger than I thought. I’m not one for architecture, but the place was beautiful, understated and elegant. The landscaping was carefully manicured, all in all achieving a sense of bygone and utter Britishness that I was surprised it hadn’t been annexed as a part of the National Trust.

We were met at the door by a housemaid, complete with uniform. Have we also been transported back in time? 

I give him a look as we’re left alone in a vast foyer, all done up with golden tones of wood and dark oil paintings in gilt frames. 

“You grew up _here?”_ I asked, peeking around the corner, and taking a look up the long, polished stairs.

“Obviously not, John.” He gave me a smirk as I met his eyes, “this is just the entryway. My room was upstairs.” 

“Really, you’re terrible at jokes. Just...don’t.” I snickered and smiled, indulging him. He looked dangerously nervous, tight around the shoulders and neck. Usually that nervous energy spilled over, into the case, sometimes onto a poor witness or even the victim of a crime. 

*

He took me on a long, though nowhere near complete, circuitous tour of the place. He only did it at my insistence, and gladly stopped when another housemaid intercepted us and said dinner would be served in fifteen minutes. She had a face that spoke to fear of her employers, of concern with keeping her station. She was obsequious to the point I was put off, and a bit confused. Sherlock was surprisingly kind with her, asking “Where is Mrs. Holmes this evening?” as she shied away. 

With a tiny, squeaking voice she told us Mrs. Holmes was unavoidably detained and could not meet us for dinner. Sherlock pressed the poor girl, but when I grabbed his forearm in silent warning, he left off and let her disappear into that rabbit's den of a house. 

We were left alone in a room the size of our entire flat, it was empty, and our voices carried. The room must have been some sort of gallery, or somewhere to entertain. It was furnished royally and the dark velvet drapes smelled of dust and age. Golden, honeyed light shone in through huge windows overlooking the gardens. 

I turned around a few times, trying to take in everything - the fine antiques, the ornate vases on delicate tables. 

“What is this place, Sherlock? Why didn’t you ever tell me?” 

“Oh,” he sighed as though I’d been dragging him through something excruciating for the past half-hour. “It’s not what it looks like, the Holmes Estate,” he said _Holmes Estate_ with particular venom, “hasn’t been in our family for ages, but from just before Mycroft was born. This place was just part of Mummy’s payoff for...making herself indispensable to The Crown. It’s all show, her parents were from Cheswick and my father was nothing but middle class before he started working for the MOD.”

He said the last bit dismissively, checking his phone while he went on, fiddling with his jacket buttons. 

“What on Earth did your Mum ever do?” I asked, staring at him as though we’d just met.

He gave his head a bit of a flip, as though him answering me was the most absurd thing I’d ever conceived of. “Come along,” he bid me, turning on his heel to walk away “dinner.” 

If there was ever a more fitting word than exasperating to describe Sherlock Holmes, I couldn’t think of it.

*

After a strangely formal dinner, we retire. A quick twist of a grand staircase and we’re upstairs, and he’s leaving me. Dropping me off, really, at an oversized bedroom. He seems strange, even for him, which is saying something. His silvery blue eyes keep flickering in unexpected directions, looking for or at things that aren’t there. Not nostalgia, as the look that grips him is dark and fearsome. It’s almost as though he doesn’t see me, though he’s speaking to me. Or past me, or at me. Or something. He’s telling me something, goodnight, or goodbye. He’s wreathed in the golden glow of warm lamps reflecting the amber wood tones of the hall. He seems small. 

“Where are you sleeping, then?” I ask, as he brushes past me. 

“Oh, same old place. Still have a room, of course.” 

“Really, with all your things saved? Posters of girls and stuffed animals?” 

I think I would have gotten more understanding if I’d been speaking Chinese. He did that blasted crinkled-nose look, the “are you observing _anything at all, John?”_ look. A man with an ego like his couldn’t seem small for long. It was nicer, so much safer than that scared, distracted look. So I asked him to show me.

It was a longer walk than I figured, to an older part of the house. Down a turn, in another hallway. He finally pointed, said “That was Mycroft’s.” to the door opposite us, and opened the door to a huge, high-ceilinged room.

It was cold, so cold. As though we were visiting a mausoleum (something we’d done more than once together). It was the bedroom of a child, but no child would want to live there. A microscope on an old desk, a perfectly utilitarian wardrobe. Someone had obviously just put fresh linen on a simple single bed. A low bookshelf around one entire wall was packed with books. Texts, really. Biology, chemistry, a well-thumbed through set of the classics. 

“Your mum didn’t keep any of your toys, then?” I joked, opening the door to a tiny washroom. For some reason, even that gave me the creeps. As though it made the room even more like a jail cell for children. Sherlock leaned in the doorway, observing me carefully. He’d never looked from me. 

“What makes you think I had _toys?_ That wasn’t the sort of thing Mummy encouraged.” I took a closer look at the collection of framed photos and certificates above the desk. A solemn boy who couldn’t have been more than ten shaking the hand of a still-notorious former MP. A certificate for winning some sort of science competition. A picture of a football team, all the boys looking straight ahead, smiling, save for one dark-haired boy, much smaller than the others, staring off away from the camera. Then stiff portraits of the same curly-haired boy in fancy public school uniforms. I was so transfixed by them that I hadn’t noticed him coming up behind me, peering at the same pictures I was. 

“Doesn’t look like much of a childhood.” I said, more to the tiny boy in the photos than the man beside me. 

“I can’t say it was, but that’s hardly remarkable.” 

His features are unreadable. He is lost, somewhere, in that childhood. I reach out to him, but he takes my hand only for a moment, squeezes it and lets it go with a gruesomely painful expression etched across his face. He turns from me. I remind myself that he wanted to come here.

“Don’t stay here, come, stay with me.” My voice turns up at the end, making a command a question. He doesn’t even answer, just gently directs me, his hands clasped around my arm. He dismissed me with a soft “goodnight” as he shuts the door.

I made my way down the empty hallway, alone. My footsteps seem stupidly loud, they must carry for miles. 

I’m tired enough to throw myself into the bed after stripping down to just pants. Once I’m there, sinking low into a feathered duvet, I’m nearly smothered by the smell of disuse and dust, that smell that seems to flourish in closed rooms and hotels. I can’t help but feel a bit stung that I’m not sleeping with him tonight, but of course, I understand. I suppose that things like that just aren’t done, in families like these.

Truth is, I miss him. I’ve grown used to those long limbs wrapped around me, grown used to the scent of his hair, the feel of his skin beneath my hands. And with that thought, I’m swiftly passing the “considering a bit of a wank before falling asleep” stage, straight to the agonizingly aroused stage. It’s been maddening, having him in bed with me. Because though we’ve kissed, and cuddled and flirted, and done a tortuous amount of teasing, there’s been no sex. His brief touches have driven me out of my mind with desire. It’s like a secondary school all over again.

He seems to want it, seems to want me, but whenever things get at all...intense, it’s like he goes somewhere else. I see him try to hide the vaguely sick look on his face. Though he seems passive and willing, I never, ever press him past that point. Whatever’s behind that look, behind that tractable blankness, I never want him to connect me with it. If I try to talk to him about it, he’s enigmatic, offering half-answers that really aren’t answers at all.

I occasionally consider that our relationship might end at that, that there is no sex in the future for us. Although the thought fills me with regret, I accept that Sherlock’s needs aren’t like mine - aren’t like anyone’s really. If cuddles and kissing is all he has to give, it’s what I’m happy to take. 

But it’s more than cuddles and kissing. And teasing, I think as I start to stroke my cock, already screamingly sensitive. I easily recall him grinding his hips into mine, I can feel the hot press of his mouth against my jaw, how he bites his lower lip to try to stop himself from making that low, heavy moan. My hand is moving faster now, practically of it’s own volition. Thinking of his dark growl of pleasure, I come, quaking with my own shuddering pleasure. I clean up with my pants, which were already half-off around my hips anyhow. 

Then I’m lying naked in this gorgeous canopy bed, swallowed by crisp cotton sheets and what seems like acres of duvet.

I catch my breath, warm and satisfied, but still thinking of him. And it’s a bit of an ache that trips across my heart.

In that post-orgasmic haze, the smarting in my shoulder has faded, my limbs are loose and I toss comfortably in the pillowy bed.

But like so many nights, sleep doesn’t come. Instead, I think on Sherlock, on this strange, grand house. My worry about meeting his mother, about what happened here, it grows and spikes dangerous tendrils through my thoughts and slowly, my heart. Some part of me wishes I could go back, could undo whatever’s been done here. But whatever it was, it brought him to me, and made him who he is. So I would see what he wanted to show me, and would hope it brought him to me, in the end. 

The house was silent and still, so the sound of soft footfalls and then the click of the door handle were as loud as if it broadcast across an audio system. I pulled the cover up to my neck and sat up. 

“Um, yes? Hello?” My voice threaded, tiny and uncertain through the dark. 

And of course it was Sherlock, turned to quietly click the door behind him. He was all dark, dressed in deep blue, contrasted starkly by the ivory of the door and wall. 

“Hey.” I said blankly. My heart gave a little flare, just like every time I saw him.

“I don’t really care if she knows.” He said quietly, almost to the room instead of at me. 

“Alright then.” I said smiling. He came and sat down on the edge of the bed, beside me, facing away. He was holding himself very tightly, his hands in fists at his sides, his head hanging low, shoulders hunched. His nostrils were flaring as he breathed heavily, it seemed like anger, or like fear. I couldn’t quite tell.

I leaned towards him, reached for him and rubbed his back slowly. When my fingers brushed him, his whole body reacted. At first he pulled away, gave a strangled sound, then leaned in. As I ran my hand up his back, around his shoulders and neck, he relaxed, just a bit. This was all in just a few seconds.

He flopped down beside me on the bed, on top of the cover. His dressing gown made a pool of dark, shining blue around him, his pale chest an island of light. He closed his eyes as I curled around him, holding him tightly to me. I cradled his head in my hands, kissed his forehead softly. He’d have hated for me to say it, but I forgot sometimes, how much younger he was than me. I felt it most acutely, when his face was relaxed instead of fixed in concentration. 

He reached for my hand, wrapping it in his much larger one. 

“I can’t do this.” he said softly. The same old fear sparked back to life, but this time I knew I’d been here before. So I asked him, “why, what’s wrong?”

He gave me a look, eyes desperate. “I mean, I’m afraid I can’t do this.”

“Do what?” 

“This. This with you.” He squeezed my hand.

“Do you want this?” I asked calmly, wondering what parts of my heart I should close off soonest.

He was silent, staring at me. After a long, dangerous silence, he breathed “Yes, yes, I want this. I don’t know what you’ll want, though.” 

Sherlock navigating love? A relationship? Might as well be navigating blind on the surface of the moon.

“I want you. You really can be a bit dense sometimes.” He gave me a quiet chuckle, the knitted brow softening. I went on, “I love you. I won’t love you any less, whatever you want to show me.” 

He shook his head, then slid off the bed. In one smooth motion he shrugged out of his dressing gown and lifted the duvet. I held it down with one hand. 

“Um, I’m...not dressed?” I said. We’d been fooling around for ages, it seemed now. But I’d never been naked in bed with him. He gave a snort and quickly pulled off his pajama bottoms and pants, stepping out of his soft leather slippers. He slid into the bed beside me. 

Involuntarily, I gave a little gasp as he touched me. He moved against me, his entire body pressed against mine. I took a deep breath.

He was as warm and lithe as I could have ever dreamed. He was nearly feverish next to me, I felt clammy and cold once he was kindling that fire beside me. I briefly thanked the gods that I’d had a wank before he’d come in, as otherwise I’d have been distractingly aroused. As it was, I was already headed in that direction.

He kissed me, first tenderly, then let me go with a quick bite to my bottom lip, so sharp I almost cried out. Then he settled against my shoulder and wrapped one long leg around mine. 

“So, when am I going to meet your mother? What’s she like?”

He gave me a quick appraisal, and spoke in a rush. 

“Mummy. She’s...well, she can be a bit difficult.” He said it in that tone of voice that said that’s all there is to it. 

But I wasn’t letting it go. “Yeah, but what’s she like? What was she like, as a mother?”

He gave a sigh, and his eyes went a bit unfocused. Sherlock’s memories could be precise and incredibly vivid, and I knew he was calling up one now. 

“She had quite a career, you should know. We should all be grateful to her, for the work she did after the war. She came from nothing, it was a time of incredible change in the government, in the way we lived in the world. She made a career of...putting the right people together. Her real skill was in knowing what would happen next, as she had researched them all before and knew how they’d interact. On a global scale. Mycroft would know more,” he said sourly, “as he’s Mummy’s little protegee - the student who has far outstripped the teacher.”

I had questions, but one warning look from him stopped them at my lips.

“All the employees here, they’re not personal, they’re like this house - gifts from a grateful country to a dutiful servant who keeps her secrets close, even after all these years.”

He looked up at me, his face full of bitterness. 

“After working in London all that time, she made a poor decision; she married my father. She loved him very much, I think. It was at his urging that she retired here, to the country, with my big brother. Even then, their marriage was already falling apart. As the drinking, the infidelity got worse, so did Mummy. She went half-mad with depression, with the anger of losing control of her life. She took to her room with headaches for days when Father was in London. So Mycroft got the worst of it. He became her confidant, her only friend in this big empty house. Things were given some sense of normalcy on the weekends, when Father would return home.”

He went on, easily, as though the words had all been stored up somewhere, memorized, just ready to spill out.

“Mycroft said that even then, they were playacting at being a family. He was clever, cleverer than you’ll know, even as a child. And he knew that facade was the only thing keeping Father returning home. Father returning home was what mother had begun to live for. Mycroft was so unlike me; he was so smart, and he worked so hard. He was desperate for the distraction of their approval.”

“But Mummy started working again, and he was sent away to school. She used this place as only she could, to it’s fullest potential - threw parties, started networking again. I think she started all that at least in part to remind my father of how important she was, and to keep him at home as much as she could. Instead, he embarrassed her. He was arrested for drink-driving more often than even her influence could cover up. He was implicated in a prostitution ring in London.”

His voice was cold, had a sense of a recital about it.

“It was during that happy time that I was born. I suppose it’s some sort of surprise I didn’t end up with Foetal Alcohol Syndrome or...well, she hated my father by then. It was just the two of us, rattling around in this house. She never really left. Her headaches got worse and worse. I had nannies and tutors, but from when I was a very small boy, it was just her.”

I imagined for a moment, a tiny pale boy with huge blue eyes, wandering lonely in those gardens outside. 

“Over summers and holidays, Mycroft was home, of course. He was so much older, so different then. He tried, you know? He tried to shield me from them. I think I was four when I realized he intentionally incited Father when he was home, hoping he’d lay off me or mother when Mycroft was gone. Mycroft had such a calculating mind, even then. Like Mummy, he could manage and manipulate people until they were thankful for it.”

He smiled wistfully.

“He gave me books, did you know that? Mycroft knew what it was like, to be home with her. So he gave me his books, and so many more.” He was silent for a moment. “He knows people, far better than I do. He got the best of both of them.” 

Such kind words on Mycroft made me wonder, even more, what the falling out between the two of them had been over. 

“I learned to run and hide, John. I learned that well. The world became full of warning signs. If Mummy’s room smelled of drink in the afternoons, I knew to hide myself in the evenings. If I heard the car, I knew to hide, hide, hide, and listen ‘til I knew what sort of mood Father brought home. I might have been nearly five when I taught myself not to sleep so long, in case one of them came into my room at night, in a rage.”

He sighed, closed his eyes, then said absently, “they were _so beautiful._ They were the angry gods of my childhood, and soon they fell.”

“With father, it was easy. I already hated him for the rage, for the bruises he put on Mummy far more than the ones he left on me. But it started with a conversation. The first time I ever deduced anything, really. Mummy was having one of her headaches, which happened so frequently. She called me to her room and said we were going to play a game. It was called ‘Where is Daddy sleeping tonight?’ and it taught me the destructive power of love. And that was the beginning of the fall for Mummy too. When I realized how much caring had been her weakness. She used those exact words, that caring was a weakness. And that she would burn it out of her if she could.”

Although Sherlock’s words were even and his affect practically flat, I could only imagine the way those words would twist a child, would hurt him.

“She’d had a sister, Mummy did. She died in a fire when they were very small, along with my Grandmother. Her name was Amelia, and she had apparently been the perfect child in every way my mother wasn’t. Her father couldn’t care for her alone, so Mum was sent to live with a retired old uncle, and whenever she misbehaved, the uncle told Mummy that she should have been burned out of the family, should have died where Amelia had lived. Mummy had seen Amelia’s burnt body, and lived in fear of fire. The uncle took advantage of that, and whenever Mummy showed any sign of a behavior he didn’t like, he said he’d burn it right out of her.”

My face was calm and I was relaxed, it was difficult to try to fool Sherlock Holmes. But inside, my mind was racing. Jim Moriarty had known this, someone had told him this story. A new, seething hatred of Mycroft was blooming in the back of my mind.

“It was so effective, that’s what she used on me. Whenever I...misbehaved, that’s what she told me. She told me how the house was black and ashes after the fire, of seeing her things melted and burnt. Of the smell of her sister’s body.”

I couldn’t stop myself.

“Oh god, Sherlock.” I said, holding him close to me again. He had pulled away as he was talking. He looked at me and it took him a long moment to recognize me, he’d been so lost in memory. He had the look of a man who’d been rescued from drowning, surprised to find himself on land again. His eyes were filled with tears, and he quickly pressed fingers to his eyes, as though he was hiding his face.

I gently pulled his hands away, He wrapped his arms around my neck, buried his face next to mine. 

_“See why it was so easy to die?”_ he asked me in a whisper. _“I’ve been dead all this time.”_

It nearly destroyed me. I felt tears well in my own eyes, and willed them away, blinking rapidly. 

“No, no, no.” I said firmly. “No, not dead, hurt maybe, but not dead. I’ve seen you joyful,” I started, stroking his dark curls from his face, “you have joy, and you have love. I love you so much.” As if my words could cover the holes in that broken heart. “I felt dead before I met you, but I was just serving time in purgatory. I was waiting. I was waiting for you. Oh god, I love you.” 

I knew I was rambling, that I probably sounded like a madman. But love for him was practically overwhelming me, it would choke me if I didn’t say it. I hugged him and kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his shoulders gently. Down somewhere deep, a spark of guilt festered in me, guilt for hurting him by loving him, bringing all this up. I hated myself for it, for feeling guilty about that night those few weeks ago, when I made my feelings plain. 

I kept on, telling him I loved him, until he was calm again, and he looked up at me, eyes huge in his pale face. I resolved again, to get him to eat something at the soonest opportunity. 

“You’re so kind, John.” he said, staring up at me. “Why? I’m...not like that.” 

“No, you’re not. It’s alright.” A small laugh was tucked under my words. I started to wonder if anyone on the planet was less like me than him, in some ways. 

“It’s not a weakness,” he said, as though he was trying out an idea. His eyes were half-closed, the conversation had exhausted him. He made a few more drowsy observations, which I only barely caught. The last made me smile, though, when he asked himself, and me in a sleepy whisper “Why does it feel _so good,_ then, being here with you?” He gave a little wiggle of pleasure and a soft giggle before he drifted off to sleep.

After a few minutes I started to relax, to take my cue from his steady breathing. A small part of me argued for staying awake, in case he needed anything. Even that part was beginning to give in when I felt him stir beside me. He pulled away a bit, to study my face, as he so often did while I slept.

“I love you, John.” he said, his deep voice heavy with emotion, “I love you beyond all reason and logic.”

My next breath caught in my throat. I realised he might have thought I was asleep, so when I opened my eyes to his, he quailed a bit. Then he smiled, a bit abashed. In all this time, he had never said a word about loving me, never said it back when I did. I had started to wonder if he thought himself capable of loving at all. I answered his sweet look with a smile of my own and said “I love you, too.” 

He looked at me, pleadingly, his voice so low and soft. “I love you so much I don’t know what to do!” He looked surprised, and scared, and pleased with himself all at once. 

I laughed, trying not to patronize him as I said “it’s alright.” He gave me a look of even deeper confusion. “It’s supposed to feel like this? Does it always feel like this?” 

I didn’t even answer that question, just pulled him close for a quick kiss. “Sherlock Holmes, the virgin.” I teased. He opened his mouth to retort and nothing came out. He closed it and opened it again, making several false starts, flustered. 

I laughed again, then said quietly “Don’t worry.” I bit his earlobe gently. “I’ll show you how it goes.”

Never before had the words “I love you.” been such an aphrodisiac for me. I would have made love to him then, but he was emotionally exhausted, and became nervous and somehow shy after only a few moments of gentle kissing. 

“It’s alright,” I told him, pulling away so he wouldn’t feel pressured, but running my hand across his chest. I started to consider that "it's alright" had become my mantra lately, when Sherlock was overwhelmed, or lost, he never seemed tired of hearing it. I had been with women before, when they were unsure and found that putting the brakes on and letting them take control was usually enough to turn things around. Quite often, though, it lead to an evening of talking and cuddling, which was far preferable to a partner that was anything but enthusiastic. In fact the idea of being with someone without that emphatic yes made me feel ill. I was achingly hard but pulled my hips from his side so that wouldn’t make him feel any sort of pressure.

“What do you want?” I asked. He made no effort to conceal the conflicting emotions playing across his face. 

“It’s no reflection on you,” he said, “I just...don’t know?” And it was back, that shake of the shoulders that told me he was afraid, or hurt. I couldn’t tell which. So I hugged him gently and pulled the duvet back over him.

“It’s alright, really” I repeated, kissing him deeply, “no worries at all.” I gave him a cheesy wink, but instead of being annoyed by it, he looked relieved. 

“You’re safe with me.” I said as he settled down next to me again, sleepiness flooding me. I wished that by saying it, it made it more true, that I could protect him, make it hurt less. As a soldier, I couldn’t protect everything. But as a doctor, I am very, very good at helping to heal even the deepest, deadliest wounds. 

“I love you.” he said, kissing me again as sleep truly took me down. 

>   
>  Comfort came against my will  
>  And every story must grow old  
> 

  



End file.
